


(i'm) coming back to you

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fuck the finale we'er fixing this clusterfuck of a shows bad decision, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Resurrection, alice/q is resolved, this is queliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-02-07 07:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Quentin stops just outside the archway, and looks down at the metro card in his hand. He mattered to them. It’s okay. They’ll be okay. He just needs to--to walk through the door.But.“Something wrong?”He blinks down at the card, turning it over in his palm, and quietly says to it, “You never did answer my question.” He looks up from the card, and twists around to turn his gaze on Penny. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and he seems mostly surprised that Quentin hasn’t gone through the door yet. “Did I? Kill myself?”Penny stares at him for a long moment before taking a half step towards him and rolling his shoulders. “Does it matter?”That’s the question, isn’t it? His friends were mourning him--he mattered to them. His life wasn’t this meaningless disaster he’d always thought it was. And for once, his brain isn’t compounded by countless thoughts of ‘what if I--’s. For once in his entire life, it’s all just silent, and it shouldn’t matter how it happened. He should just turn, and step through the door and--“Yes.”





	1. Chapter 1

Quentin stops just outside the archway, and looks down at the metro card in his hand. He mattered to them. It’s okay. They’ll be okay. He just needs to--to walk through the door.

But.

“Something wrong?”

He blinks down at the card, turning it over in his palm, and quietly says to it, “You never did answer my question.” He looks up from the card, and twists around to turn his gaze on Penny. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and he seems mostly surprised that Quentin hasn’t gone through the door yet. “Did I? _Kill myself_?”

Penny stares at him for a long moment before taking a half step towards him and rolling his shoulders. “Does it matter?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? His friends were mourning him--he mattered to them. His life wasn’t this meaningless disaster he’d always thought it was. And for once, his brain isn’t compounded by countless thoughts of ‘ _what if I_ \--’s. For once in his entire life, it’s all just silent, and it shouldn’t matter how it happened. He should just turn, and step through the door and--

“ _Y_ _es_.”

It startles even him; the way it falls with unkempt urgency. It’s adamant, desperate sounding and it wracks its way up through his chest how true it is. It _matters_. Of course it matters. How could it not?

“It matters.” He swallows. “Did I?”

The urgency fades just as quickly as it arrived; replaced by slow desperation. The kind that builds with each moment of silence. With each second that his heart should be beating. With each breath he should be breathing. With every tear that his friends are crying up in the real world. It builds up, up, up--

Until, Penny, looking only slightly reluctant and like he wants to throw up a little, says, “. . . Yes.”

Quentin blinks, stumbles back a step. He’d expected it, somewhere deep in his gut, where his darkest demons lie, but still. Hearing it. Paired with the look Penny’s giving him--like he wishes Quentin had just walked through the door and left this all behind. He looks down at the metro card again; realizes his hands are shaking, and drops it like it’s on fire, stumbling back even further as it clatters to the ground by his feet.

“I can’t go,” He says, eyebrows furrowing painfully as he turns his attention back on Penny. _“I can’t go_.”

Penny sighs, neck rolling as he looks up at the ceiling like he’s asking one of the many entities of the universe why this has become his life, and then turns his attention back on Quentin. His eyes are gentle; patient. And Quentin wants to punch the look off his face. “Look,” He starts, and Quentin shakes his head.

“No,” He says, “No. I have fought--I’ve been. And. _No_ .” He moves in, point at Penny with all the urgency and desperation and pain in the world, “I _fought_ for this. I swear; I went _to war_ for this.” He jabs the fingers at his chest, where his heart should be, but he doesn’t have a heart anymore. Doesn’t have a _body_ anymore. “I can’t have lost, Penny. I can’t.”

“You’re not losing. You’re moving on.”

“No. I’m _not_.”

Penny blinks. Takes a step in, and licks his lips like he has to prepare himself for what comes next. “You don’t . . . have a choice, Quentin.” And it _stings_ , Penny saying his name like this. He’s not Coldwater or nerd or idiot--he’s _Quentin_. “You’re dead. You spilled your secret. Now, you move on. That’s how it works.”

“ _You_ didn’t,” Quentin says, the answer immediate on his tongue, “You died. You’re still here.”

“My body died. My soul didn’t.”

Quentin scoffs. “Fuck you. Because you’re a traveler, you get different rules?” He shakes his head and moves back, hands trembling at his sides as they fall. “You--you’re telling me there’s no way I go back to them? No way I can see them, speak to them, ever again? That--that I’m just gone. Because I hesitated?” His chin dimples and he moves back again, swallowing. “I didn’t want to die, Penny. _I didn’t want to die_.”

“That’s not what your book says.”

“Fuck my book!” He runs a hand through his hair, chill traveling down his back. He didn’t want to die. He just . . . he remembers the moment. The hesitance. The _if I stop, it’ll be over._ It feels like he’s been burned by the abyss key again--like it’s taken over and this is all some toxic depressive dream. He didn’t mean to stop. He just wanted to save them. He didn’t _mean_ to _stop_. He didn’t mean to-- 

“That wasn’t my secret.” He says, shakily. “My secret wasn’t that I’d finally found a way to kill myself. Why did you give me the metro card?”

“What?”

Quentin swallows, blinking rapidly as he thinks over their conversation in the room. Thinks over his friends at the bonfire. Thinks over everything. He never . . . actually revealed anything. He just learned his friends miss him, and that--

_“I matter.”_

He turns and looks down at the metro card; feels a deep disgust churn in his gut as his gaze slides across the floor and up to the archway still waiting for him. He matters, and he threw it all away. He fought for them, and basically walked away right before he could get--

“You do,” Penny says from behind him. “Where are you going with this?”

“That wasn’t my secret,” He mutters, twisting back around and looking down at the ground between them. “Everyone knows. I--My secret. Wasn’t--”

“Then what was it?”

He reaches up, tangles his fingers in his hair. “Nobody asked,” He murmurs, glancing up at Penny from beneath his eyelashes. “Why I was. Fighting so hard. Nobody asked. Not even when I--when the monsters hands were around my throat and I asked it to finish me.” His eyes flicker to the floor again. “Nobody asked.”

Penny takes a step forward. The clack of his shoes echoes around them--near deafening. “What do you need me to ask?”

“Not you.” He shakes his head, falls back a step to keep the distance between them. He curls his bottom lip in, sucking on it for a moment, before biting down and letting go. “He was right there and I just . . . left him. And then I made Alice--I can’t.” He glances back up at Penny. “I _won’t_.”

“Why not?” He’s tucked his hands back in his pockets.

“What?”

“Why won’t you go?”

“Because _it’s wrong._ ” Quentin all but hisses, lip twitching. “This isn’t how it was supposed to end. I--I was supposed to. Overcome. And--” He throws his arms out at his sides, “Why does everyone else get a second chance? But I fuck up and it’s over?” He raises his eyebrows, “Why can’t I try again? We’ve beat death before. Why is it different this time, because it’s me?”

Penny watches him, before sighing. “You’re telling me if you had a chance to do it all over--you wouldn’t make the same choices?” He moves in, finally pulling his hands from his pocket. “That if you had a second chance you wouldn’t still sacrifice yourself--”

“There _was no sacrifice_!” Quentin yells, the words breaking out of him, filled with desperation and dread and sorrow and everything in between that creates and destroys. “Nobody was in danger. I--Everett. Or whoever he was. He--wouldn’t have known how to control those powers. He . . . I didn’t have to die to stop him.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why it was a suicide--”

“I wouldn’t do it again. I. I don’t know why I did it--”

“Come on, man. You’re addicted to the hero juice. You would do the same thing a thousand times over, and pretending otherwise is just kidding yourself. You died how you sh--”

“Don’t.” It’s punctured with finality. “Don’t you dare say I died how I should have. I shouldn’t have--I had. So much left. Unfinished. Untold. Alice . . . Elot. Julia. I--”

He breaks off.

He’d made Alice watch him die. She’d just gotten her faith in magic back. She’d just regained that part of herself that she could love after having it ripped out of her. She’d just. Started being happy, and that had nothing to do with Quentin, and he’d told her he wanted to be with her, and he’d made her watch him die. He told her they’d work together. A team.

And he’d _made her watch him die._

No _._

_He’d made her watch him kill himself._

“I’m not letting it end here.”

He can’t even remember the moment they saved Eliot. Too focused on the spell, on just getting to the next task, because they were unending. Too trapped in the series of tragedies, just waiting for what comes next. He remembers the blood, the fear curling up in his gut, because oh, god this was it, wasn’t it--

And then he--

“I never said goodbye.” He looks up, eyes straining. “I never even got to say hello.”

“You’re dead--”

“You’re wrong.” He shakes his head and looks back down, because yes, he is dead, but. “Magic killed me. Magic . . . I. There has to be a way to fix it. To undo it. Or . . .” He looks back up; bangs have fallen in his face, can barely think straight. “Send me back, Penny.” He rushes forward, hands grasping at the air in front of him. “Send me back. If you--if you ever. Cared. Even if you didn’t care about me. Alice? Eliot? Julia? Send me back. I . . . they don’t need me. But I need them, and I know that’s not a lot, but it’s _something_.”

Penny sighs again, looks to the side. “That’s why you’re supposed to walk through the door, man. You won’t need anything anymore.”

“But I _want_ to need.” He inhales needlessly and takes another step in, more hesitant. “I _want_ to _feel_ and. Hurt. And hate and--and _love_ . If--that means. Fighting for it. I will. If that means I have to kick and scream and--and _beg_ . For you to not send me through that door--I will. I--I don’t want to lose them. I don’t want _them_ to _hurt_. Not if I . . . Not if there’s a way we can turn around and I can go back.”

His chin trembles as his hands fall to his sides, and Penny watches him. Penny watches him with a careful eye, like there’s something he’s seeing that Quentin can’t quite catch.

“ _Please_.” It’s full. Of everything he can’t feel, of everything, every _one,_ he’s lost. “Don’t let me lose to this. Don’t let this be my story, Penny.” He takes the final step in, until he’s standing right in front of him. He reaches out, but his hand falls just shy of grabbing Penny’s arm. “You read my book. Can you seriously say that was a satisfying end?”

Penny looks down for a moment, before glancing up at Quentin from beneath his eyelashes. “I’m not saying I can do what you’re asking. But if I could, how do you know that when things get hard you wouldn’t just do it again? How do you know you won’t just end up here again next week? Or next month? Your destiny is to die young. What’s the difference between dying now and next week? I’ve been in your head, Quentin. I know how much suffering you’ve lived with. Why not just go be happy, instead of trying to fight something that can’t be fought?”

“Destiny is bullshit.”

It gets a startled laugh out of him. “I mean. You’re not wrong,” He says once he’s stopped laughing. “But that doesn’t mean _it’s_ wrong.”

“I don’t care if it’s wrong. I don’t care about it at all. I just . . . I _want_.” That’s it. For the first time in a very long time--

He _wants_.

To live. To love. To-- _feel_. To fucking fight for it if he has to.

He clenches his fist at his side. “Tell me how I go back.”

Penny’s lips curl in. His gaze jerks up to the archway behind Quentin, then down to him, and back. Quentin watches him; waiting. But then, Penny stands straight, carefully steps around Quentin and goes and picks up the metro card off the ground. He holds it up front of him for a beat, before looking at Quentin again. “You know how many people way centuries for one of these things?”

Quentin shrugs a little helplessly. “Give it to one of _them_ , then.”

He nods, once, before looking down at the card again. “I never would have thought you’d have it in you,” he says, soft. He glances up at Quentin, shaking the card in front of him with one hand, like it’s a wad of cash and he’s making a bet. “But I can’t say I’m _surprised_.” And it’s true, he doesn’t look surprised. He looks, maybe, a little _proud_.

“Okay?”

“I may have made a deal with one of the bosses,” Penny continues, carefully shoving the card into his pocket and turning to give Quentin his full attention. “After I read your book. We kind of have this whole . . . Indifferent, omniscient asshole regime thing going on.”

Quentin blinks. “Sounds like you’re right where you belong, then.”

Penny smiles. “Right?” The smile falls and he makes his way across the room, speaking as he goes. Slow, steady steps across the floor. “Anyways. I may have made a bet with Hades--”

“--Hades is, real? Of course he’s real. Dumb question. Go ahead.”

Penny’s face settles into an unenthused scowl. “Are you going to be Quentin about this the entire time or are you going to let me talk?”

“Thought you were nicer now . . .”

“You done?”

Quentin huffs, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Yeah.”

Penny watches him for a moment, like he doesn’t quite believe him. Which is . . . _fair_ considering their. _Relationship_ isn’t the right word. Acquaintanceship. He rolls his eyes, and Quentin can see the silhouette of him flipping the card over in his pocket like he’s fidgeting with it. “Anyways. I made a bet with Hades,” He pauses, probably expecting Quentin to interrupt, but Quentin just raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “It’s how you got fast tracked.” He looks a little too proud of himself. “One thing I learned in book club is that Hades can never turn down a bet.”

Quentin can’t help himself--

“Book club?”

One hand comes out from a pocket, and Penny waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t ask.” He takes another careful step, like he’s approaching prey, “Anyways, I told him I’d read your book. That you, in a chicken shit move, after a clusterfuck of a year, opted for killing yourself instead of. You know. _Not_ being a dumb ass.” He shrugs a shoulder, continues walking, starts circling around Quentin. Quentin twists around to follow him. “He wasn’t all that interested. ‘Humans die, Penny. The rest of your friends will die with time, too.’ But I’d read their books . . . They live okay lives. Kady lives to be eighty seven. Julia . . . Eliot . . . Alice. The rest of them. Live.”

“Well?” Quentin asks, without really meaning to. “Do they live _well_ ? Or-- _Long_?”

“Do _you_ ever _shut up_?”

“You’ve been in my head, you tell me.”

Penny’s lips curve in an annoyed smirk but he rolls his eyes and continues. “I’m not going to answer that. I will say I told him I thought their lives might. Turn out more interesting if you _didn’t_ die.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in front of his abdomen now, as he completes his first full rotation around Quentin.

“Okay? Can you just--”

“Can you let me tell my story? I’ve come to appreciate the art of a good story.” He grins, twisting around and walking towards the archway. “We made a bet. Whoever won, it decided what happens to you. He bet that you’d come down, see your friends care about you, and then move on to find some peace of mind, or whatever craps on the other side.” He flipped around, just shy of the arch. “I bet that you’d be a stubborn dick about it.”

Wait.

Quentin’s arms fall to his sides. “Are . . . you saying you. _Believed_ in me?” Of all the people Quentin’s known in his life, he never would have pegged Penny as the one to believe in him.

Penny rolls his eyes, pulling one hand out from his pocket to wipe at his nose with the back of it. “No. I’m saying I’ve been in your head, and I know you.” He shrugs, tucking his hand back in his pocket and looking down at the ground in front of him. “I win the bet you get to go back, and I get to take your metro card. He wins; you walk through the arch,” He nods behind him, “And when Kady dies, I promise not to try and meet her, and I get an additional three millennia added to my contract.”

“But what was all the pressuring and--and the bonfire--”

“I had to treat you like anyone else coming through. Couldn’t try and convince you to stay; one of the terms of the deal.”

“So, I stay and you--”

“Get my contract voided out, and I get to move on, yeah.”

Quentin swallows. “You, uh, must be really glad I stopped . . .” He looks down, eyebrows furrowing. He’s not really sure what to make of it. That Penny believed so deeply in him that he was willing to risk losing Kady forever . . . He looks up, a thought smacking him in the chest. “Why didn’t you . . . try to get him to agree to you coming back, too?”

“I did. No dice.” He lets out a little humorless laugh, “He’s a betting man, but not when the reward for one side is greater than the reward for the other. Besides.” Leaning forward, he shrugs again. “Ever since I died. I’ve wondered.” He motions towards the arch with a nod of his head. “What’s on the other side. I’m . . . not going right away though, so don’t look so fucking sad, jesus, Coldwater.”

Quentin sighs, forces his face into a stoic expression of uncaring--which, based on the look Penny gives him, fails spectacularly. “You’re . . . going to wait for Kady.”

He nods, once, barely even a movement. “Didn’t really get a real goodbye, you know?” He clears his throat, like he thinks the emotion of the moments gone on too long--which is bullshit, but Quentin’s not about to argue--and pulls the card from his pocket. He holds it up between his index and middle finger. “Last chance. You can still say goodbye to all that pain in your head for good.”

Quentin shakes his head and takes a deliberate step backwards. “No. Even if I die tomorrow or next week from whatever god or monster or quest decides to take over our lives. I don’t want this to be the end. I want to go back.”

“And you realize this is the only metro card you’ll be offered? Next time you die, it’s the underworld for good. No take backs.”

That changes things, doesn’t it? It feels like it should. He lets his gaze slide over to the metro card, where it sits ominously in Penny’s hand. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t change a damn thing. Even knowing that if he dies tomorrow, he’ll have had a chance to go back and say he’s sorry. A chance to at least try and fix some of the damage. He swallows thickly, and shakes his head. “No, Penny,” He says, proud to only be slightly choked ip. “I don’t care. I--I want to go back. I realize this is my only chance,” He adds, when Penny’s raises his eyebrows pointedly. “I willingly give it up.”

“You could end up alone forever in the underworld next time you die.”

“Okay.”

Penny watches him for a moment before the unbelievable happens. He smiles. _At Quentin_. He nods to himself, shoving the card back in his hand as he moves across the room to stand in front of him again. “You kind of fucked up your body, you know.”

“ . . . How am I going to go back, then?”

Waving a hand, Penny looks over Quentin’s shoulder and nods at something. “Don’t worry about it.” He moves around him, “Come on. The elevator’s ready.”

They turn and start down the hallway, the trip down the long hallway mostly quiet. Their steps echo, loud and assuming around them, bouncing off the dreary grey walls until they can absorb in the soft fabric of their clothes. Penny’s the one that reaches forward and presses the up button on the elevator.

They stand in comfortable silence until the doors slide open with a soft ding, and Quentin steps in. He turns, and nods at Penny, soft and uncertain. “Thank you,” He says. “For believing in me.”

Penny shrugs, hands tucked in his pockets again. He’s the very definition of cool, unaffected ease. But his eyes are softer than they’d been, back when they’d both been alive. Like there’d been a fondness that he’s not afraid to show anymore. Just as the doors start to close, he reaches out, stopping them, and nods at Quentin, too. “Thank you,” He offers, and he sounds like he means it. “For not letting me down.”

Quentin swallows. “I’m trying a thing,” He replies, “Not letting people down. I think this is a good start?”

Laughing, Penny shakes his head as he lets his arm drop. “Not the worst, so, there’s that.” There’s a moment of gentle comradery as they stand there waiting for the doors to close, but as they do, Penny waves with one hand, just one short shake of his palm.

Quentin manages to call out another, desperate, little broken off, “Thank-- _thank you.”_ Just as the doors slide shut.

And then everything.

Goes black.


	2. i love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wakes up next to a simmering fire pit. Every nerve in his body tingles, like his atoms have all fallen asleep and woken up all at once. And it takes him a moment to remember where he is, how he got here. Who he is, even. But he sits there for a long moment, just staring at the extinguished fire. The charred remnants of a crown, the broken crispy pieces of an eggshell; the smell of peach pie.
> 
> Eventually he moves, aching limbs wobbly and unsure, and sits on one of the logs surrounding the fire pit. He’s not even sure how long he’s been out here, or even where here is, but apparently it’s long enough he doesn’t need to go looking for them. Because there’s a soft, scared gasp, and when he’s able to remember how to move his neck to look; it’s Margo standing there, staring wide eyed at him. She’s got an empty garbage bag in one hand, and a pair of gloves in the other.
> 
> She drops the gloves, and the garbage bag shakily flutters to the ground in a crispy mess. She takes an unsteady step towards him, eyebrows raised. “Are you real? Or is this some bullshit vision shit caused by my eye?”

He wakes up next to a simmering fire pit. Every nerve in his body tingles, like his atoms have all fallen asleep and woken up all at once. And it takes him a moment to remember where he is, how he got here. Who he is, even. But he sits there for a long moment, just staring at the extinguished fire. The charred remnants of a crown, the broken crispy pieces of an eggshell; the smell of peach pie.

Eventually he moves, aching limbs wobbly and unsure, and sits on one of the logs surrounding the fire pit. He’s not even sure how long he’s been out here, or even where here is, but apparently it’s long enough he doesn’t need to go looking for them. Because there’s a soft, scared gasp, and when he’s able to remember how to move his neck to look; it’s Margo standing there, staring wide eyed at him. She’s got an empty garbage bag in one hand, and a pair of gloves in the other.

She drops the gloves, and the garbage bag shakily flutters to the ground in a crispy mess. She takes an unsteady step towards him, eyebrows raised. “Are you real? Or is this some bullshit vision shit caused by my eye?”

His neck aches, so he turns to face the cold fire pit again. It takes a moment for his muscles to respond to his commands, but when they do, he shrugs, and he hears the crunch of her feet through the leaves. “I don’t know,” he says, voice hoarse and scratchy. “I think it’s real.”

The little whisper at the back of his mind, filled with regret and _what if’_ s affirms the theory, so at least he’s got that to hold onto.

She moves around the log to stand in front of him and watches him for about half a second before leaning in jerkily and poking him roughly in the shoulder. He groans, the nerves still too tender, too raw, and she jumps back a step. Her hands form white knuckled fists at her sides.

“You _killed yourself_.”

He clenches his jaw; even like this it’s what his bodies accustomed to. “I did,” he says once he’s able to make the words form on his tongue. “But I didn’t mean to.”

Margo scoffs with all the anger of someone who’s lost someone like this. “There’s not much ambiguity here, Q.” The words don’t hold nearly as much anger. She just sounds tired. She sounds like he felt. How he _feels._ He nods. She’s not wrong. She doesn’t say anything else, though; just moves to sit next to him on the log. It doesn’t take long before her hand reaches out, fingers lacing through his.

“I was going to go through the door,” he says, when his voice finds him again. “But I. Couldn’t.”

She laughs, humorless and a little choked off. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“No. I just — needed to say it, I guess.” He forces himself to look at her, examining. She looks tired; though the make up that’s partially wiped off from a long day hides it well. He knows her well enough to recognize the tired twitch in her right eye, though, and the exasperated scowl on her mouth. “I’m sorry,” he manages once he’s taken her all in, and the command to speak finally answers itself.

She looks prepared to yell, but her face falls faster than the angry furrow between her brows even appeared, and before he can even think to catch her, she’s moving around and wrapping her arms around him in an iron tight grip. It takes a moment for his tingling arms to react, but when they do, he grabs on just as tightly; like she’s going to anchor him back to earth. He pretends not to feel the wet warmth dripping onto his skin, and she keeps the crying quiet.

She adjusts, inhaling shakily as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, too.” She pauses, before pulling away and looking at him pointedly — her mascaras still perfect because of course she’d worn waterproof to a funeral—and adding, “I’m still tempted to send you back to the depths of whatever hell sent you back, because you’re an asshole. But I _am_ sorry, too.”

“Why are _you_ sorry?” He asks, because he can’t fathom —

But she’s pulling away, the real, living warmth washing away with her, and she grabs onto his hand again, holding tight as she pulls it into her lap, like she needs proof this is real still, too. “Because I wasn’t there for you.” She says, quiet, after a beat, staring down at their hands, both hers clamped down tight on his. “I’ve been. Thinking about it since Alice told us. We all saw how you were. And we were all so focused on our own shit we didn’t bother —”

“It’s fine,” he manages, voice thick, carefully bringing his free hand up to or it overtop hers. “It’s done.”

“It’s not,” she looks up at him from beneath her eyelashes with wet, sad eyes. “But we’re going to make up for it. If only because Eliot’s been doing his best imitation of screaming —“

He swallows, grip on her hand tightening unintentionally at the mention of Eliot. He closes his eyes at the swell of emotion that bursts up through his sternum. His heart pangs painfully in his chest, clanging up against his rib cage, frantic and unsure. It’s not a new feeling, but it _feels_ new — the way his nerves light up with every memory touch. She turns one of her hands up, gives his a returning squeeze.

“Do you want to see him?”

Yes. He wants to scream it, yell it, beg, plead. Thrash at the heavens and hells until he gets his way. But he can’t even make himself open his eyes, or to level out the scrunched up pained face he’s making, because something’s threatening at the back of his eyes, building up in his throat. So, he just nods. _Yes, yes, please._ He feels her nod when her hair brushes against his cheek and shoulder.

“I think I need to warn them,” She says, “Otherwise it’s gonna go all kinds of Paranormal Activity post discovery up in here.”

He laughs; the sound forces it’s way passed the lump in his throat, and comes out more as a hacking, nasty thing, than as a laugh. But it’s the fastest his bodies responded to anything so far. “Can I— ” He starts, clearing his throat, and slowly turning to look at her. “Can I maybe have some clothes, too?”

Her eyebrow goes up high, and she leans back to take a long, playfully leering look at him, before rolling her eyes and coming back in to gently bump his shoulder with hers. “Please,” She says, smirking at him, “It’s nothing nobody's seen before.”

He shakes his head. “It’s . . . different.”

There’s a long silence, before she squeezes his hand. “That’s okay, too.” And it’s soft; sincere. He hasn’t heard her like this since the night they almost ruined their friendship back before . . . everything. Before Fillory.

God, he’d forgotten there’d ever even been a _before Fillory._

Managing a closed lip smile, he leans into her. “It’s not.”

“And _that’s_ okay.” This time it’s fierce, demanding — _Margo._ She doesn’t wait for him to respond; carefully pries their hands apart and stands up. It takes a moment for his body to understand, but then he looks up at her, blinking, and she holds her hand out. “Let’s see what this baby can do, huh?”

A careful little smile manages to form, and he nods shakily, before reaching up with trembling arms to let her help him up.

  


**

  


He leans against the wall, a blanket draped over his shoulders as Margo walks through the bedroom door. “Hey, babe,” He hears her say, soft and cautious. Can hear the ruffling of blankets just beyond the door frame, probably her climbing onto the bed.

The response is muffled. “I’m sore, Bambi. Maybe go cuddle Josh.”

His voice sets something off in Quentin’s chest, and in a disturbing display of determination, his body pushes off the wall, and the blanket falls to the floor in a clumsy heap as he grabs onto the doorframe and he all but pulls himself into the room. He’s not even sure needing to see Eliot is a _choice._ But it’s been all he’d worked at for more than a year, and he has to see him. Here. Alive. Real. The bonfire had assured him he hadn’t failed; but it was different. It was _different_ knowing he could speak, touch, hold him.

He stands in the doorway, staring wide eyed at the bed. And he must make a sound, must say or do something, because Eliot’s scrambling to sit up, wide eyed and frantic, face scrunched up in pain, and one hand reaching down to wrap around his gut. “Bambi—” He starts, groaning and hunching over. His free hand reaches out and points at Quentin. “ _Bambi —”_

She leans in, a hand on his shoulder, and looks over her own at Quentin. “Damn it, Quentin!” She exclaims, glaring at him. “I told you to wait!”

“I —”

“ _You see him, too?_ ” It’s desperate, gasped out and seeped with pain and something else Quentin can’t quite make sense of in his current state.

Her head whips back around and she waves a hand, casting a small spell. Quentin recognizes it, can’t quite place it in his memories, though, to identify it. He stumbles across the room, stopping just shy of the bed, and sways as he watches as Eliot slowly slumps--the tension in his shoulders and back flowing out of him, and the heaving breaths gentling down into careful, even inhale-exhales. He looks up at Quentin from beneath his hair; and for a moment, it’s a flash of the monster--the wild hair, and sad downset of his lips.

“Yes,” Margo says from behind him, flopping back to lean against the headboard and extending her legs out in front of her. She waves a hand flippantly. “Was _trying_ to warn you before exactly _that_ happened.” The glare she shoots at Quentin is half-hearted at best.

Eliot swallows. “You’re naked.”

Quentin looks down at himself and back up. “I had a blanket.”

They watch each other quietly. Margo looks between them before she rolls her eyes with an exaggerated heach thunk against the headboard, and shoves up from the bed.She grabs Quentin by the shoulder, and carefully leads him to the bed. “I’m going to go tell the others,” She says, as his legs bend and he sits down. She leans down to help him lift his legs up onto the bed. And then holds his shoulders to help him lean against the headboard. Once he’s settled, she sets her hands on her hips and looks down at him. “Stay here, okay?” He looks up at her, in time for her to reach out to tangle a hand in his hair, like she wants to pull it, but instead, she just pulls him against her abdomen, and kisses the top of his head. “I mean it.”

He doesn’t even get to respond before she’s leaving the room, and closing the door with a soft click behind her. There’s barely a moment to process everything when a gentle hand slides across the bedspread and slips under Quentin’s. He looks down at it, watches as Eliot turns his hand so his palm is facing upwards, and laces their fingers together.

Something deep and confusing sparks in his gut, and he forces himself to look up. Eliot’s staring down at their hands, like he thinks he might be dreaming; eyes glazed over and searching. Quentin tilts his head, orders his hand to squeeze, and feels a little thrill as the command is answered immediately, and his hand closes around Eliot’s.

Eliot’s eyes dart up, to look at Quentin from beneath his hair. “You’re really here,” He says, somewhat awestruck.

Quentin nods once.

Eliot’s face falls, and grimacing, he reaches up with his free hand to cup Quentin’s jaw. His eyes dart back and forth between Quentins. “ _How_?”

It’s the most emotion he’s seen Eliot express since Teddy was born. So, essentially, the most emotion he’s _ever_ seen him express.

“I didn’t get to say hello,” Quentin says, leaning into the touch and letting his eyes flutter shut. Eliot’s hand is warm and safe and _comfort_ and it feels like the universe is reconfiguring itself in the space where their skin meets. “Couldn’t go.”

He’s tired, he realizes with a start. Body still buzzing and alert, but his mind is fuzzy and confused. Everything makes sense, just as much as it doesn’t.

“ . . . Are you staying?”

His eyes snap open. “What?”

“Are you staying?” Eliot repeats, eyes wide and open and glistening. “Is it safe for me to be happy right now? Or is this just . . . you finding some way from beyond the grave to say goodbye and somehow make this worse than it already is?”

Quentin tries shaking his head. “No . . . I —”

Eliot’s hand drops to the bed spread, and Quentin wants to cry out, follow the warmth, but his body follows neither demand, and all he can do look at Eliot helplessly as he unravels their hands. “You killed yourself,” He says, jaw clenching as he looks away. “You fucking killed yourself, you asshole.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well you did.” Eliot shakes his head and looks down at his lap. “You killed yourself and I opened my eyes to a world without you in it.” He scoffs, glances back up at Quentin. “Do you know what that’s like?”

Quentin blinked at him. “Yes,” He manages, “I spent a year in a world without you. This time. Last time I spent five years without you.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“ . . . I didn’t _mean to do it_.”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant to do,” Eliot mutters, leaning his head back against the headboard and glaring at the ceiling. “What matters is—” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing as he swallows and turns to look at him again. “Jesus. It _doesn’t_ fucking matter. Because you’re here. I hate you.”

“Oh.”

He still smells the peach from the fire. Stuck in his senses. Eliot’s not the only reason he came back. But it's a hard fact to recall with him sitting so near, and the smell of peaches filling Quentin up whole.

Eliot’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head, reaching out for Quentin’s hand again, setting Quentins skin buzzing. “No, don’t do that,” He murmurs, “Don’t pull away. You don’t get to _do_ that right now, Q.” Pausing, he swallows. “ _Please_ , don’t. I mean.”

Quentin shakes his head, wills himself to move so he can lean over and rest it on Eliot’s shoulder. Their hands fall into the divet of Eliot’s lap. “I’m — I won’t.” He eventually says. “I didn’t come back to lose you again, Eliot.” Not that Eliot’s his to lose. Not that he ever was.

He doesn’t need him to be, though. So long as he’s alive, and Quentin’s here to witness as much.

Eliot freezes, shoulders tensing beneath Quentin’s cheek. Quentin thinks over his words, fear splintering down his spine that he may have said the wrong thing, but Eliot’s free hand comes up to cup the side of Quentin’s neck, thumb stroking at the skin as the base of his jaw. He doesn’t say anything — Quentin counts the strokes, he gets to six — until an unsteady exhale fills the room. “Did . . .” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing,  “Are you saying you came back for _me_?”

And he sounds so. _Small_. That Quentin can’t help but lift his head; fights the sleep tired ache of his muscles, and the slow control of his body, so he can look up at him. So he can nod; so Eliot can see it in his eyes, and have no choice but to believe him. So he can’t deny it. Or —

. . . or _reject_ it.  

“I — not _entirely —”_

The door bursts open, and he barely has a chance to let the words disappear so he can try and twist around when he hears, “You _are_ back.”

One second, he’s looking up at Alice, and then next he’s being pulled into her arms, twisted at the hips, crushed beneath the weight of her hug,. It almost burns, how tightly she holds on. She way she digs into his skin, like an anchor latching into him. He wants to ask her to let go, that his skin feels like it’s on fire, tingling and achy and warm and it’s too fucking much--but he made her watch him die. He can’t.

Make himself do anything, but let her hang on. Feel the tears slip down his neck and over his shoulder blade.

She pulls away after what must be seconds, but feels like years, centuries, and stares down at him, fingers digging into the skin of his shoulders. “ _How_ ?” She asks. He can see it in her eyes. The memory of what he made her watch trying to dig itself up and tell her that this isn’t real, that this can’t be real, that _he’s_ not real.

He can’t blame her for her nails breaking skin when she squeezes his shoulders tighter.

“Alice,” Eliot says from behind him.

Quentin manages to shake his head, gently and shakily reaching up to set his hand on her wrist. “Just,” He croaks, “I — I need a _second_.”

She lets go and takes a step away from the bed. Her eyes are wide, and the tears come as soon as she blinks down at him. She’s wringing her hands in front of her, like she doesn’t know what else to do with them, but her attention doesn’t waiver. She manages to wait nearly a minute, letting him inhale, exhale in slow, calculated movements, before she says, “I’m sorry. But I--Quentin. _How are you here_?”

“Weren’t you a Niffin?” Eliot asks from behind him. “You, of all of us, should have at least _some_ idea.”

She shakes her head, a barely there movement, eyes still locked on Quentin. “No.”

Quentin’s heart stutters, before he forces himself to shrug, limbs hesitating only a moment before following the action. “I wasn’t ready,” He says, eyes falling to the space on the bed between him and Eliot. Their knees are only a few inches apart; if Quentin can will his limbs to move, he can catch the heat radiating from Eliot’s limbs. Just slide it over an inch, and feel the sweet, lively warmth. His leg doesn’t move, and he sighs, looking back up at Alice. “I wasn’t ready.”

She stares at him, the same wide eyed awe slowly fading away until something not entirely unfamiliar takes over. “You killed yourself,” She says, slow and dangerous, and he can’t say he’s surprised. He made her watch. He deserves whatever anger she has for him. “And you’re telling me you weren’t _ready?”_ She takes a step back, tilting her head so her hair falls back over her shoulders, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Alice.” Quentin’s neck creaks to the side to look at Margo, where she’s glaring at Alice from the doorway. Her tone is cold as ice, and it nearly chills him; if he weren’t already freezing. Her teeth are clenched when she adds, “Do you really think _now’s_ the time to call him a selfish son of a bitch?” Her eyes dart over to him, “That’s not to say you’re not a selfish son of a bitch, by the way.”

He nods, once. “I know,” He mutters, looking back at Alice. “And she _should_ yell at me. I deserve it.” Eliot’s hand comes out and settles on Quentin’s knee, and his breath hitches as the warmth spreads out from Eliot’s hand, all up and down Quentin’s leg. He looks down at it, the way Eliot’s fingers stretch, and stretch even as their draped lazily over the bare skin. He swallows, wants to reach up and place his hand over Eliot’s, feel the warmth spread all through him. But he’s acutely aware of Alice’s gaze on him, so he glance up at her from beneath his hair and eyelashes.

Her eyes are softer now, rounded and locked on Eliot’s hand on his knee.

“Alice?”

She jerks her gaze up to look at him, and tilts her chin up when their eyes connect. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” Her hands fall to her side as she shrugs. “It’s always been him.”

“Alice . . .”

“Don’t.” She shakes her head and looks at Eliot. “You two . . . _recover_. And talk. And after, when none of us are in danger of our bodies breaking the three of us can talk.”

Quentin tries to shake his head; his heart crashes against his ribcage, but his body doesn’t follow the mental command. “Alice,” He says, croaks, “You don’t have to—”

“You spent a year doing everything you could to get him back,” She interrupts, blinking, and he can’t tell if she’s blinking away tears, or if she’s just doing that thing she does when her mind is racing. “You thought he was going to die and you killed yourself, Q. And before that, when you thought you were going to trap him in an infinite prison for all of eternity and found out you might die trying, you didn’t even hesitate to keep moving forward. I think we know who you’d choose, here.” She shrugs, a little helplessly, a little like she’s not surprised. “I’m just. Happy you’re not dead. As long as you’re still my friend.”

He stares at her, mouth falling open of its own accord, and for a brief, shattering moment he thinks his bodies going to fall to pieces here in Eliot’s arms, but Eliot squeezes his knee, and he forces a breath in past the lump in his throat, and demands a nod. His body listens, nods once, then, twice, then a few more times in rapid succession as the lump builds and his eyes burn.

“And we still have to talk about you being a selfish dick.”

Margo moves further into the room, crossing her arms, nodding. “Oh, no,” She agrees, “We are definitely talking about all of that shit. When he’s not moving at the speed of Sloth.”

He doesn’t realize the tears have managed to tip over the edge until Eliot’s arm wraps around him, pulling him back into his side. He rests his temple against the top of his head. “Why are you crying?” He asks. And Quentin forces himself to shrug before his body lets him curve into Eliot’s side, bury his face in his neck, and heave in a long breath.

He smells like iron and sweat and honeysuckle and peaches. And . . . _home._

“I thought you’d hate me,” He says eventually, when the realization of home, home, he’s my home, finally stops clanging around in his head like an anvil bouncing on rubber. “All of you. I thought . . . I’d. I’d have to — to fight to prove that I won’t do anything stupid again.”

“You?” Margo asks, the bed dipping as she kneels next to him on it, “Honey, your middle name is idiot. You’re incapable of not doing anything stupid.”

“No,” he frowns, “my middle name is Makepeace.”

There’s a heavy pause.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, _“What?”_

“I’m going to do us all a temporary favor and table that particular nugget for later,” Margo says, reaching up and raking her fingers through Quentin’s hair. His eyes flutter shut at the motion as he turns his face out of Eliot’s neck and leans into her touch. “Alice, be a doll and call Julia. I’m going to go order some food and these two,” He opens his eyes when she pauses pointedly, and flinches at the way she looks between him and Eliot, “Are going to talk.”

“We _did_ talk,” He objects, voice barely more than a mumble, as Eliot squeezes his hip.

Margo makes a face, cupping his jaw. “Baby,” She coos, “You’re not the only idiot in the room.” She leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead, lingering, and he pretends not to feel her chin wobble before she pulls away and tucks his hair behind his ear. She looks at him for a beat, eyes flickering between each of his, before she looks up at Eliot over his shoulder. “You heard her,” She says, pulling away and standing up. “Don’t be an idiot, Eliot.”

Eliot sighs, long suffering behind him, and a ringless hand pops up into Quentin’s peripheral as he waves her off. “I get it, Bambi. Go away.”

“Morphine makes you no fun.”

“You _know_ I stopped using the morphine three days ago.”

She pauses, clenching her jaw before rolling her eyes and turning to leave, dragging Alice along with her. The door closes gently behind them, and the only sound once their footfalls disappear down the stairs, is that of his breathing; ragged and tired, and Eliot’s, slower than he remembers, deeper.

“We don’t have to,” Quentin says, the words bubbling out of him as he twists around, slowly, to face Eliot. “What Alice said. What— What I told you before. We don’t have to—”

“Yes, Q, we do.”

Frowning, Quentin shakes his head, and barrels on, “I just. I know you don’t — and I get it. I. I don’t blame you for not wanting — wanting that with. With me. And I don’t expect — just because I came back for — well. It wasn’t just you —”

“Q.”

“ — there was a whole. It was a list. A long list of things and reasons to come back and —”

“Quentin.”

“ — the fact that I’m still in love with you isn’t all it was, I —”

“If you don’t shut the _fuck_ up —”

“ — swear that I —”

Eliot cups his jaw and tilts his chin up, and before Quentin can even think to breathe in, Eliot’s lips press against his; soft and chap and _warm._ The warmth tingles against the sensitive skin of his lips, spreads through him like dye. Travels across his cheeks and down to where Eliot’s hand is cupping his jaw, and down his throat, all along his skin, until he feels like he’s on simmering fire everywhere. His body finally responds, left hand reaching up to catch in Eliot’s too long hair, and his right grabbing onto his shoulder to steady them.

He inhales through his nose, the sound ragged and loud in the room, and Eliot’s lips open against his, tongue dancing along the edge of Quentin’s lower lip. He opens his mouth, and it feels like he’s breathing life into him. Quentin attempts to move impossibly closer to him, pulling at him, but Eliot breaks away, moving back and pressing their foreheads together so Quentin can’t drag them back in. His chest heaves, pressing against Quentin’s on every other breath, and he pushes Quentin’s hair out of the way with his whole hand, thumb pressing up against his cheekbone.

“Why —”

“Because I’m on doctors orders not to do anything too strenuous.”

Quentin blinks up at him, fingers digging into the flesh of Eliot’s bicep as he tries to even out his own breathing. “What? I. No. I meant—”

“Please,” Eliot breathes, eyes falling shut as he twists so their temples press together. One of his hands comes down and fists up against the skin of Quentin’s abdomen like he’s trying to ground himself. His knuckles dig into Quentin’s skin in chaotic harmony, and he continues, “tell me you’re not about to ask me why I kissed you.”

Quentin’s eyebrows rise, and he shrugs a little helplessly, eyes falling shut as their chests press together, heart to heart. “I just —” He breaks off, swallowing and forcing his eyes open to look into Eliot’s. “Last time. I thought — I thought you didn’t —”

The hand on Quentin’s abdomen trails up his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until it can trace his jaw, featherlight, as Eliot’s eyes fall almost completely closed. He licks his lips. “I’m a dirty, rotten, filthy liar,” He murmurs, eyes darting back to up to Quentin’s. “An extremist would call me a coward.”

Quentin doesn’t have it in him to try and decipher whatever _that_ means. “If you’re just . . . trying to. Make me. Not? Want to — to. If you’re trying to. Fuck I don’t —” He leans back, pulling out of Eliot’s grasp and leaning against the headboard. Suddenly self conscious for reasons more than the fact that Eliot’s just trying to make him feel a little less pathetic, he fists a hand in the blanket and pulls it over his lap, lets his hand, tired, fall, lead heavy overtop it, and looks down at it helplessly. “You don’t have to do this,” He says after a beat. “It’s not like I’m going to kill myself. Again.”

Eliot drags in a breath, all rasp and no elegance, before his hand snakes back in and grabs Quentin’s. “That’s not what this is,” He says, carefully moving in, mindful of his wound, and bringing his other hand up to cup the side of Quentin’s neck. “Q, that’s not what this fucking _is.”_

Unable to control the tremor in his jaw, Quentin looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, and his breath catches in his throat at the earnestness he finds in Eliot’s eyes. “You said —”

“You’re welcome to call me a coward, too,” Eliot interrupts, soft eyes boring into Quentin’s so deeply Quentin worries he can see into his very fucking _soul._ “Because I had the chance to tell you I was in love with you and save us all this trouble, but I ran away. Like a coward.”

“You were in love with me?”

He should focus on the rest of the sentence. Try and zone in on the context, but they’re the only words that register. They blare heavily in the echo chamber in his head like church bells.

Eliot shakes his head; a barely there motion, eyebrows furrowing upwards, and his thumb brushes along the line of Quentin’s jaw. The corner of his mouth twitches. “You really are an idiot,” He breathes, terrifyingly fond, “No, Q, I didn’t _used to_ love you.” Quentin’s heart falls, but Eliot’s squeezes his hand like he’s catching it, and adds, “I _still_ love you.” He rolls his eyes, which have gone misty again, and looks up at the ceiling, “I wish I could say I’m surprised I have to spell it out for you,” His gaze drops back down, “but I haven’t exactly made it clear, have I?”

“That’s — I’m.” Quentin leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. “You love me,” He says into the darkness, warmth erupting all through him, this time starting in his chest. Maybe he’s still dead. Maybe this all consuming heat is just Satan prepping him for the boiler.

But Eliot leans in and presses his lips to his temple. And he knows this is real.

“Need me to say it again?” Eliot asks, lips warm and wet, brushing against his skin with every syllable.

“If I say yes —”

Eliot doesn’t let him finish the sentence, “I love you,” He says, trailing his lips down to press against his cheek bone. “Quentin Coldwater, _I_ love _you,”_ Even further to press against the corner of his mouth, sliding his hand around to the back of Quentin’s neck to get it out of the way. “I _love_ you,” He says again, pressing a chaste kiss to his mouth. He pulls away, barely a centimeter of distance between their mouths, and repeats it again, his lips brushing against Quentin’s on every outward syllable. _“I love you.”_

Quentin brings his hand up and cups Eliot’s cheek as he opens his eyes and looks at him. Bright, watery hazel gazes down on him, and he can’t help leaning in and kissing him again. “I love you, too,” He says as he pulls away.

“Good,” Eliot says, breath fanning out over Quentin’s cheeks. “So if I tell you that if you ever get yourself killed again, I’ll find a way to resurrect you so I can kill you again myself, you’ll understand.” Quentin nods, and he feels it when Eliot smiles, as his cheeks push up and graze against Quentin’s. “And now that we’ve got that out of the way, not that I don’t _love_ the emotion vomiting, I just want to point out that I love the post-resurrection attire.” He pulls back and grins, though it’s slightly dimmed by the tears still misting his eyes. “You should literally never not be naked.”

Quentin looks down at himself for the first time since he came to. His skin is somehow paler than it was when he died; nearly pristine but for the red flush easing back in. No scars or bruises or dents or dings. Factory reset. It is weird, he’ll admit. Not seeing the series of scars along his stomach and arms and legs. For it all to be gone . . . like he really is just. Starting over.

He glances back up at Eliot. “Maybe,” He murmurs, “But I’ve seen you naked, and,” he wobbles his head, “I could say the same for you.”

Eliot’s face falls a fraction, before he rolls his eyes. “Please. I’ve got big ass scars now, Q. You’re officially the pretty boyfriend.”

Quentin’s breath catches. “Yeah, right,” he says. As if a couple scars could ever put a dent in Eliot’s looks. If anything they’ll probably just succeed in making him more beautiful once they heal.

“You are.” He trails his hand down Quentin’s chest, pausing at his sternum to trace the divet there, “Your skin is soft as a baby. Which is so incredibly unfair.” He drags his fingers lower, a barely there touching along the center of Quentin’s ribcage, until they get trapped in the trail of hair above his belly button. “I’ve got an intense skin care regimen, and you have softer skin than me.”

Heat travels down Quentin’s spine and he looks down to watch Eliot’s fingers curling through the hair. “El . . .”

“Quentin.” His tone is playfully aware, and Quentin’s only mildly certain he’s going to die again as his heart pounds painfully up against his ribs.

“Didn’t you say your doctor told you no strenuous—” He breaks off as Eliot’s hand shifts down, palm resting flat along the space between his belly button and pelvis.

Eliot chuckles above him, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Is it really that strenuous?” He asks into his hair, “If I just—”

“We can’t,” Quentin chokes out, bringing his hand down to place it over Eliot’s, even as his body fights the command, making the movement clumsy and awkward. Which means maybe his body isn’t _entirely_ new, because it’s never exactly been great at following commands. Always out of sync with where he wants it to go. “Not until we. There’s still a lot. To _talk_ about.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that I killed myself and made Alice watch. Or that you were trapped inside your head for a year while a monster used your body to kill people. Or that Julia lost her powers—”

“She got those back, actually,” Eliot interrupts, dry.

“Or that I gave up the afterlife forever to come back here. Or that Penny—”

Eliot pulls away entirely, “What?”

“Penny—”

“No, you asshole, go back. To the part about giving up the afterlife forever? What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

Quentin forces himself to shrug and looks at the wall across the room. “Everything comes at a cost,” He says, soft, “Coming back meant that I can never, uh. Cross over, or whatever.” He shrugs again and darts his gaze back to Eliot. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Q—”

“I wanted to come back. I wasn’t ready to die. Not just because of you, even if you were. An, uhm. A large part of it. It just means that when I do die,” Eliot’s face goes dark, and Quentin squeezes his hand, “of _old age,”_ he adds. “It just means I’ll stay in the underworld. It’s not a big deal.”

Eliot stares at him quietly for a long moment before sighing, and unraveling from around him, careful not to irk his wounds. “It is a big deal,” He finally says. “I love you, but you’re an idiot.” He raises an eyebrow at him, like he expects him to disagree, and then sighs again. “We need to call a family meeting.”

“Family meeting?”

Eliot frowns at him. “Yes. Family meeting,” He says, before turning away and casting a spell Quentin doesn’t recognize.

He shouldn’t be surprised when, less than half a minute later, twenty three appears in the middle of the room with a glare, and all their closest friends. But, he’s jumpy and _is_ surprised.

“Okay,” Kady says, waiting for Quentin’s shocked scream to die down, “I’d love to ask _how_ and _what the fuck,_ but first I’m going to need someone to cover his dick, because I’m not sure I ever wanted to know what a Coldwater Boner looks like.” Quentin yanks the blanket over himself, only mildly pleased that his muscles contract exactly when he demands them to.

Less pleased by the smirk on Eliot’s lips.

“Oh, shut up,” He mutters before waving weakly at the rest of the room. “Hi.”

 

 

**  
  


“So let me get this straight. He’s back, he’s here to _stay,_ you two are sappy idiots in love, and the only thing it cost was Quentin taking the midnight train going anywhere when he dies?” Margo asks, shoving away from the wall. “I fail to see the problem here.” She shrugs, “It’s not like the Underworld’s a shit place to spend eternity.”

Julia nods beside her, tear tracks on her cheeks finally drying. “She’s right. I mean, endless bowling sounds lame. But I don’t think that’s all there is?”

Kady makes a face. “I don’t care what you say. I’m not spending eternity _bowling.”_

“I’m sure there are other things we could do.”

Alice raises a hand from where she’s sitting by the bed, “I learned a lot about the Underworld while I was a Niffin. It’s basically Heaven, when you get past the whole corporate office stuff at the beginning.”

Quentin shuffles on the bed, glancing between them as what’s happening starts to click. “Wait,” He says, soft.

“So, we’d have fun. No monsters to fight. No worries,” Eliot says, ignoring him, with a nod. “It could be good.”

Shaking his head, Quentin leans forward, and points at him, “Hang on—”

“I mean. Even if it is just bowling, bowling alley nacho’s aren’t bad,” Julia says, leaning against the wall. “I wouldn’t hate spending eternity eating those.” She glances at Quentin, “You love them."

“I do, but—”

“And, our Penny’s down there,” Kady interjects. “At the underworld library branch. It wouldn’t suck, seeing him.”

Quentin’s heart stutters, “Why does it—”

“I mean,” Twenty Three says, “I doubt I even get to move on. Because other me is already down there.”

Quentin’s jaw cracks open as he looks them over. “You can’t seriously—”

Eliot grabs his hand and squeezes, “Don’t bother arguing with us.”

Alice nods, giving him her patented, don’t be an idiot, Quentin, look, and crosses her legs in her seat. She shrugs a shoulder, eyes flitting down to their hands interlaced in Quentin’s lap. “You made me watch you kill yourself,” She says, finally, bringing her gaze up to his, “You don’t get a say in this.”

Quentin scoffs, eyes narrowing, because it’s clear that’s a card that’s going to be used against him again. But he can’t even actually be mad about it because what he did _was_ shitty, and now, as if that isn’t enough, she’s sitting here watching him cuddle with the man he cheated on her with like it’s no big deal. “You’re suggesting you’ll stay in the underworld with me rather than finding eternal peace in the afterlife,” He says, “Do you have any idea how idiotic that is?” He turns his attention on Kady, “Penny’s—”

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” She says, and he almost groans because there's so much they don't know and they're being _idiots._ “For right now, we’re addressing this.”

“And this?” Margo continues, moving across the room and standing at the edge of the bed to point a shaking finger at him, “This ain’t nothing but a Tuesday night in comparison to some of the shit we’ve done. So accept that we’re not going to leave you alone in the underworld for all of eternity.”

Eliot nods in agreement. “Honestly,” He says with a roll of his eyes, “If we weren’t going to let you trap yourself in a castle with a monster, and were willing to danger anyone and everything to get you back then, what the fuck makes you think we’ll let you trap yourself in the underworld when staying with you would hurt literally nobody?”

“It hurts _you.”_ _  
_

“There’s a lot that hurts me,” Eliot says, gaze going soft again as he reaches up with his free hand and brushes Quentin’s bangs behind his ear, “But somehow, the idea of spending eternity with you isn’t one of those things.”

Margo and Julia nod in agreement, while Kady shrugs. “I can think of worse fates,” she says. “Besides, you’re acting like you wouldn’t do the same thing for any of us, and we know damn well that’s not true.”

“I don’t even like you and I know that’s true,” Twenty Three confirms from the corner.

“Q,” Julia adds, “we’re not abandoning you. Just accept it. Or, forget about it for the next seventy years, and then yell at us when we’re all dead.”

“You’ll have plenty time to yell in the underworld,” Alice says. “I mean. We’ll ignore you, then, too. But, that’s not the point.”

“The point is,” Margo says, “We stick the fuck together. No matter what.”

Quentin looks at each of them individually, before sighing softly, and letting his gaze drop down to his hand still clutched in Eliot’s in his lap. He bites down on his lip, before looking back up and nodding. “No matter what.”

“Great!” Margo nods, turning back to Twenty Three. “Mind giving us a ride so we don’t have to watch _Eliot_ give _Q_ a ride?”

_“Margo!”_

She looks over her shoulder at him, rolling her eyes. “Right, sorry, Q. Eliot’s down for maintenance. But I’m sure hand stuff is still fair game.” She grins and turns back to Twenty Three. “Chop chop, traveler boy, we’ve got places to be, penises not to see.”

Twenty Three sighs, but Quentin watches as they all gather together and poof out of the room. Quentin stares at the blank space for a beat, before turning to look at Eliot, expecting him to be equally horrified, but there’s a small smirk tilting his lips, and Quentin shakes his head. “No,” He says, “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“You are not proving Margo right!”

“Come on, Q,” Eliot says, teasing, “You came back to life. It only makes sense that you also c—”

“I hate you.”

“You _love_ me.”

“Not as much as _I hate you.”_

Eliot pouts, a mocking puffing of his bottom lip, before leaning in and brushing their noses together. “Quentin Coldwater,” He says, snaking his arm around Quentin’s waist, and pulling him as close as he can without hurting himself, “I cannot _wait_ to ravage you.”

“You’re an ass.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Oh my god—”

“Kiss me and I’ll shut up.”

Quentin pauses, tilting his head. “Isn’t that my line?”

Eliot’s smile darkens a degree, but he says, “I think your line is more like, ‘I promise to never kill myself again’.”

“I promise never to kill myself again.”

“One more time.”

_“I promise never to kill myself again.”_

The smile comes back and he bumps their noses again, pressing a kiss to the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Not as good as an orgasm, but it’ll do.”

Quentin can’t help the vibrant little laugh that bubbles up out of his chest, or the way he falls into Eliot, mindful of the sensitive area of his abdomen, as he buries his face in his chest. Eliot’s arms move around to hold him closer, and Quentin inhales, deep. Fills himself up on air, and Eliot, and life.

“I promise to never kill myself again,” He says, soft, into Eliot’s sleep shirt.

Eliot’s hand rubs his back gently. “And I promise to never let you get to the point where it seems like an option,” He says into his hair. “Now go to sleep. We’re probably going to do more crying tomorrow.”

“Yay. More crying.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

They don’t say anything for a few long moments, and sleep’s already settling itself in Quentin’s mind, heavy as a duvet over his consciousness, when he feels Eliot’s lips against his temple, and a quiet, “I really do love you.”

He smiles, nuzzling into Eliot’s warmth, and let’s sleep take over.

  
  



End file.
